The Best of Us

three

SEPTEMBER 2014

"TUCKER, CAN I keep you for five?"

"Uh, yeah," I nodded, throwing my bag down at the side of the desk closest to him and sitting myself in the seat there. "I can stay for five."

"Great," he grinned, leaning against his desk, his fingers curled around the edge. "Heaven, I wouldn't bother waiting."

"Alright," she replied, smiling politely at him. Her blonde hair was in a messy ponytail, loose strands framing her face, she was wearing a t-shirt, a light green one, that was too big for her and she was still pale, even though she had spent as much time in the sun as we had. She was probably happy enough to leave. She had to be at work for four. "Thanks, Mr Dylan."

"Not a problem," he said, waving her off.

She looked at me and her smile shifted; balmed, mostly thin, pink lips spilling wider. "See you tomorrow."

Slumped in my chair with my hands resting over the edge of the desk, I lifted one in farewell and she left, the last student to get out of the door and flood into the hallway.

It was the first day back and it had passed quietly. Everyone was figuring out their new schedules and adjusting to the return of routine now that summer had officially ended. Most of our classes had involved preparing for the semester and some introductions to new teachers, but I was relieved to find that Heaven and I still had last period English with Mr Dylan.

"Hey, kid," he greeted.

Mr Dylan had been teaching at our high-school since Thomas was a sophomore— five years ago. He was younger than a lot of the other teachers, twenty nine, and had short, dark— almost black—hair with tanned skin and faded green eyes. His face was never empty, not even when he was working silently at his desk. He was always smiling or laughing or frowning or raising his brows and dropping his mouth open or pulling some kind of face, and he always paced or sat around the room while he was teaching. Sometimes he stood at the back of the class, sometimes he sat on the wide window sills or leaned against his desk, like he was now, but he only ever sat behind his desk when everyone was working independently. Sometimes he wore round glasses and his tie, if he wore one, always matched his shirt. He was as contemplative as he was buoyant and he had the patience of a saint.

When Thomas had been at school, Mr Dylan had been his favorite teacher. Towards the end of his high-school career, Mr Dylan was the only teacher he could stand.

I was a freshman when Thomas was a senior and he had taken me to meet Mr Dylan once after class. When I got him for English in my own sophomore year, I had been thrilled, not only because Thomas liked him, but because, since I had met him, I spent the rest of my freshman year praying to get into his class. The odds had, thankfully, been in my favour for that matter every year since.

"Hey," I said, nodding my chin up at him.

"How've you been?" He asked, folding his arms. "How was summer?"

"Good," I replied, nodding. "It was good. How was your summer?"

"Well, I ate and sunbathed and swam and slept and sunbathed some more," he grinned. "I'd say it was a success."

"Sure sounds like one," I agreed, offering him a smile, not quite the same as Heaven's.

"I'm guessing you spent all of yours bothering Bradley," he replied, green eyes glazed and glinting. September sunlight was streaming through the window and splashing the classroom in a warm, hazy glow. I could feel it on my cheek, on my hands, on my throat, in my stomach.